


Imagine Holding Bucky's Hand at the Howling Commandos Exhibit

by forestofmyown



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:11:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on tumblr:  http://avengersimagine.tumblr.com/post/90548693415/bucky-barnes-one-shot</p>
    </blockquote>





	Imagine Holding Bucky's Hand at the Howling Commandos Exhibit

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr: http://avengersimagine.tumblr.com/post/90548693415/bucky-barnes-one-shot

There's a part of you that wonders just how long the two of you are going to stand here, staring. The other part will probably never get enough of the exhibit, or the man at your side. 

He's done up in his usual 'in cogneto' getup, with a ball cap and heavy coat, hair half pulled up in a loose ponytail. He'd stood in front of the bathroom mirror for an hour this morning, holding a straight razor like some barbar shop serial killer, before finally seeming to decide that facial hair is as good a disguise as any. Most of the photos plastered around of James Buchanon Barnes are clean shaven, with short, meticulous hair.

Bucky couldn't look more different. He also couldn't hide that square jawline, his split chin, cupid bow lips, or intense gaze. You're both impressed and annoyed that all these people are gathered around, admiring this amazing man, and yet not one seems to have noticed the real deal standing amongst them.

The crowd is a mix of black mourning clothes and military uniforms. Old and young alike are here, commemorating the 100th anniversary of the death of an American hero. Captain America Steve Rogers had been around earlier, and even made a touching speech. More than half of the listeners had been moved to tears as Steve had talked wistfully about his best friend. Bucky had been a statue, frozen in place, but his eyes had been deeply rimmed in red and shining in the lights.

Now, Bucky is standing in front of the big glass display that shows his biography. He stares at it like he is staring at a stranger. He gets that way often, though not as much now adays. 

He's been standing in that same spot, unmoving, for quite awhile. People send glares your way as they shuffle around the two of you. Bucky doesn't seem to notice them. 

“Buck.” You finally say, voice soft and light despite the noise bouncing around the room. “Bucky?”

He doesn't move. The clock says it's been almost an hour.

“Hey, we gotta move, Buck.”

Nothing.

You sigh, staring at his face. You can't blame him. Even after so long, he still seems so lost at times. Lost in memories, in different decades, in different lives. A tussle of emotions that he locks behind that blank face, all but dead to the world, a silent storm.

Throwing back your shoulders, you resume your place beside him, no longer caring if you're blocking other people's views. This is Bucky's monument, his moment, and he needs this. They don't.

Silently, you slip your hand into his. He doesn't seem to notice.

Another hour later, a security guard comes over to check on the two of you. They've had a complaint. The guard takes one look at Bucky's face, and you watch with amusement as confusion, dawning, disbelief, and then awe send her expressions into a whirl. Then she stiffly appologizes, tells you both to take as much time as you need, nods, and walks away.

You smile after her. She's not the only one who's noticed. You've been keeping a count on the sly. It's one of the only things you can do to distract yourself.

You lost feeling in your legs quite a while ago. You're tired, a bit nauseous, and occasionally dizzy. 

But Bucky …

Bucky's who matters right now. This is his day.

Still, when a little kid on crutches bounds up to the display, you can't help but give Bucky a small tug, trying to move out of their way. To your surprise, you find his hand is tight around yours. When had that happened? When you move to the side, Bucky slides away with you easily.

His face is still blank. Maybe you should take him away from here. You wish you knew what he wants; what he needs. 

You settle against a wall, enough out of the way of the people passing that they can go around you without issue, but still in full view of most of Bucky's exhibit. There, you sit down in the floor. Bucky sits right beside you, staring away. 

He seems so empty.

What are you supposed to do with that? How do you help?

Does he even need help? Or is he, somehow, handling it in there?

Time is all you can give him. It's all you've always given him.

So you simply sit there, and keep holding his hand. Even when the crowd starts to diminish. When the sky starts to go dark. When they announce over the speakers that it's closing time. When you're hungry and tired and your legs ache and your butt hurts from sitting so long and your back doesn't feel great either and you've lost feeling in your fingers because that's Bucky's metal hand that's gripping you so tightly.

It's all worth it when yet another security guard comes by to tell you that you have to leave, and Bucky nods to him, stands, pulling you up with him, and smiles.

“Sorry sir. I just needed a little rest; getting old.”

The guard smirks and shakes his head. “Please. You're what, forty?”

Bucky grins right back. “One hundred and twenty-five, sir.” 

The guard looks startled. Bucky looks from him to you, face falling. 

"That is right, isn't it? I'm getting so on in the years, they're hard to keep track of. Well, we should go."

Giving you a tug, he salutes the guard and saunters towards the exit. You stumble a little beside him as the blood rushes back to your legs.

Outside, he says thank you. Doesn't look at you, doesn't give any indication he's said anything, but you heard it. A simple, quick, heartfelt thank you.

And you know that, whatever it was, he handled it. You're glad you let him.


End file.
